Shut Up and Model for Me (21 page)

“You’re wrong, Brit,” he calls, but I don’t stop for him.

I won’t ever stop for him again.

I return to my table only to realize that Hayden is no longer there—just his drained wine glass. I sit down and wait, thinking that maybe he went to the bathroom, but the more time that passes, the more I come to terms with the fact that my date has ditched me.

“Cocksucker,” I mutter under my breath, and flag down the waitress.

Hayden not only didn’t order, but also didn’t pay for our wine. I ask the waitress to bag it and pay her, tipping her liberally for pretty much wasting her time, and then I hail a cab.

I should be livid. Maybe I should shed a few tears for the sake of being a girl ditched at a fine Italian restaurant. But the fact is, I can’t even get my mind to wander in the direction of Hayden and is asshatery.

My thoughts and rage are fixed firmly on Jaime.

Chapter Three

Evan

It’s embarrassing how fast things with me and Dallas spiraled out of control. I feel like a fool caught in the heat of lust. It would be one thing if he had come back to the house and begged to sort things out like he had done when he broke up with Trish and sat on my doorstep all night.

I guess I don’t know him like I thought I did. Maybe that behavior from Dallas was a fluke, because he was as tangled in lust as I was.

The next time I see him is when I meet him at the airport—before he leaves the country for seven months.

My heart pounds in my chest. I’m nervous only because of how confused I am—my own pride has kept me from calling him, and I have no idea what’s going through his head. Hell, I hardly know what’s going through my own.

I spot him by the coffee shop right before security. The only text I’ve sent him since he left was one telling him I’d be here today, to which he responded with a simple ‘ok’. Maybe he’s come to realize the same thing that I have.

Which is okay, I guess, because I already know how the next few minutes are going to pan out.

He’s dressed much too nice for jungle hiking. He might be wearing the same exact thing as when I first laid eyes on him—black slacks and a stiff, white button-down shirt. His hair is just as disheveled too. My heart twists in my chest.

I really thought I loved him. I was just never able to differentiate.

He spots me and smiles softly, but it’s definitely a sad sort of smile. When I reach him, we hug, but nothing more. He smells like he always does, spicy and citrusy.

Laina waits for him by security. God, this blows.

“You still doing the launch?” he asks.

I nod, and he frowns.

“I don’t know what happened, Dallas,” I say. My voice is shaking and I wish it wouldn’t. “I really thought we had each other figured out, but I guess we don’t.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods, and I feel the knife of regret slowly rip through my insides.

He reaches out and cups my chin with his hands. His eye brim with concern and sadness, like he’s taking his time. I wish he wouldn’t. For the sake of my sanity, this moment needs to end as soon as possible. “We moved too fast, didn’t we?”

My nod is barely a shiver. “Yeah. Yeah, I think we did.” Granted, it was hard not to.

“You think we should take a break,” he says. It isn’t a question—I feel like he’s been reading my mind since I walked into this airport.

I take a deep breath when my eyes begin to water. I can’t let him see me cry right now. If I cry, then he’ll feel horrible and we’ll kiss and not break up. The cycle will repeat itself. But it will be worse this time, because we won’t be together.

“I think—″ I wait, taking the time to conjure the perfect words. “I think that you’re amazingly brilliant, and sexy as hell.”

The corners of his mouth perk up.

“And what we had was fun. But that’s all—fun. I don’t know if it’s strong enough to hold us together while we’re apart.”

His eyes begin to water, and all I know is that
he
better not fucking cry right now. I won’t be able to keep control of myself.

“I wish we had more time,” he says.

As if on cue, Laina calls Dallas’s name and points to her watch.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter quickly.

He leans down and softly kisses the top of my head, and my eyes flutter shut, savoring him. I know I shouldn’t be. I should be tossing him over my shoulder like every other hook-up and move on with Harvard and modeling and my life.

But there’s something about Dallas Whitley that I’ll never be able to shake.

He squeezes my hand and turns away. I force myself to not buy into the sentimental bullshit of watching him go through security until the second that I can’t see him anymore. Instead, I quickly turn on my heel and hurry out of the airport like the place is on fire, diving into my car parked in short-term. I collapse into a puddle of tears.

I keep trying to tell myself that this is typical break-up crying. That I’d sob over any boyfriend, because that’s what emotions do, right?

But deep inside, something nags at me, screaming that this is a horrible mistake. Dallas understood me on a deeper level than anyone—even Britain. He got what it was like to be both an erotic model and a bio major. A difficult degree and a job taboo as all hell. He was willing to joke about it, to tear guys apart who threw offhanded comments at me, and to understand my crazy before an exam and help me study through it.

Maybe we shouldn’t have immediately jumped into becoming lovers. But we weren’t just lovers.

He could have been on the way to becoming my best friend too.

I curl up into a ball in my seat and allow myself to cry for a few more minutes, and then I start my car and drive home.

The second I walk inside, Britain knows. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she moves from the computer to the couch, pats the seat next to her, and asks, “Wanna talk about it?”

I wipe my eyes. “Not really.”

“Wanna scoop out some coconut milk ice cream and watch a couple of horribly corny chick flicks?”

I nod, and she prepares the ice cream as I change into my pjs. I toss a couple of blankets on the living room floor and get situated as Britain flicks through options on Netflix. When we finally decide on a rom-com that looks achingly bad, Delilah comes home, throws her keys and purse on the couch, darts up the stairs, and shrieks,
“Wait for me!”

She returns in a satin pink camisole and matching pants—something I’d catch a second-grader wearing—and plops in the middle of us with a heaping bowl of popcorn. I feel a million times better already.

If a bad movie and a couple of girlfriends can make me forget about Dallas, even for an evening, then maybe I made the right decision.

Maybe I really wasn’t in love.

Britain

Audition day is weird as balls.

First of all, it’s uncomfortable. My team walks around, performing their tasks stiffly and manically. I’m almost positive it’s because of the Amora Acquisitions rep. This time, a man named Dwain watches over us. Dwain isn’t the kind of guy you think of when fun and sexy media comes to mind. Dwain reminds me of a geometry substitute teacher. He’s gangly, balding, and wears a heinously patterned short-sleeved button-up shirt tucked into a pair of over-sized Dockers. He’s also always writing on his iPad. The fact that he so obviously doesn’t fit into a room filled with half-naked women and men is, humorously enough, setting everyone on edge.

Apparently, Dwain isn’t the only Amora Acquisitions rep attending the audition. There are five more coming at noon. This is what’s setting
me
on edge, considering I can hardly handle Dwain. But the one good thing about Dwain is that, even with the timid substitute teacher look, he’s not afraid of barking out orders to my workers.

I’ve never felt more organized before an audition in my life. There’s an entire waiting room set up right where the front door is. Potential models sign up with one of my writers, grab a number, and then wait until they’re called. All of my models who are helping with the shots today have been through hair and makeup, and we still have two hours to spare.

Evan is a train wreck. She doesn’t simply look like a train wreck—her head isn’t screwed on straight either. After all models are done in the dressing room, Evan practically stumbles into the studio in her bathrobe, her hair a rat’s nest. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose permanently Rudolph-red. She looks… well… almost monstrous. The other models, including Delilah, begin whispering rapidly to each other. I snap my fingers and glare at Delilah when she looks at me, and she sulks in the corner like a punished puppy.

Ugh. Girls.

“We don’t need you today,” I tell Evan. It escapes my mouth more harshly than I mean it to, and I know I’ve given those gossiping girls fuel for their fire.

She stares at me blankly and scratches her head. “What do you mean?”

I groan, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into the house. When I shut the door, I look her straight in the eye and say, “Be honest—how intimate was your audition shoot with Dallas?”

When I say his name, she flinches. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, the shoot on the pool chair that was his audition for EPE.” When she flinches again, I continue. “See? You really think I want to damage you more by making you do that again with a guy that isn’t…
him
? No. So you’re sitting this one out.”

Her eyes grow fiery. “I don’t need you to be my emotional babysitter. I can handle myself.”

“Obviously, you can’t.” Her face twists until she looks like she’s about to cry, so I add, “I’m doing this because A. I’m your best friend, B. I have enough sample models, and C. you’ve already done enough for EPE. Hell, you’re coming back for the launch shoot even though you specifically stated that you want nothing to do with this shit when you’re at Harvard. So take a break, will you?
Christ
.” I point toward the kitchen island. “Eat your damn nasty vegan protein drink, take a shower, read a book, and I’ll let you know how it goes.”

I turn on my heel and hurry back into the studio, shutting the door and locking it behind me for effect. Two more of A.J. Harrison’s cronies have arrived, and they’re both dressed in black and holding cameras. Immediately, my defenses go up. As they stand by the door and fiddle with their equipment, I march up to Dwain.

“What are they doing?” I point to the cameramen. “I take the photos. That’s how it goes.”

Dwain holds out his hands. “Calm down, calm down. A.J. thought it would be better if you were able to relax for once and soak in the whole experience of the audition. If you’re not so focused on taking photos, you’ll be able to see more clearly how the models themselves respond to the audition.” When I arch my eyebrow high, he adds, “You know, like on
America’s Next Top Model
, all of the judges are usually hanging around a monitor and not actually taking the photos.”

“This isn’t a television show,” I snap. Technically, this asshat is my boss, but I don’t give a shit. Obviously, he knows nothing about this industry.

“A.J.’s orders,” Dwain says, which ends the conversation. I growl in frustration. “Don’t worry, we’ll give you the reigns back before you know it.”

Just the fact that he has to say that makes my insides knot. “Sure, whatever.”

All auditions will take place in the typical bedroom scenario. I try my hardest to push for the pool, but that’s another thing Dwain puts his foot down on.
A.J. says the bedroom is generic enough to get a good read on everyone
. Whatever. That’s why we won’t be able to get a good read—because no one is going to be willing to take risks.

Actually, every time I make a suggestion, Dwain tells me to stuff it. I’m also not allowed to be involved in the sign-up process or help out the set. So I end up sitting and fuming on a barstool in the studio kitchen, watching A.J.’s cronies take charge as the models slowly begin to trickle in.

And now I get why they won’t let me be a part of the sign-in process—they’re actually turning people away at the door. At first it’s for the obvious reasons—too pudgy, too gangly—but then the assistants from Amora start turning away more and more—people who are hot, people who could potentially be great models. And it finally gets me out of my seat. Infuriated, I push through the sample models and tap Dwain on the shoulder. “What the
hell
is going on?”

His lip pulls up into a sneer. “You, Miss McCulley, are out of line.”

I’ve been pushed around enough today. “Listen,
Dwain
. This is my fucking magazine, and I can break the contract whenever the hell I want.” Technically, this is the truth, although Amora will keep the rights for another two years. “Why are all of these people being turned away?”

“They don’t fit the East Park
brand
.”

I am seriously going to deck this guy.

I look at the models who have gotten through the gatekeepers. All tall and white, with that signature Abercrombie look. Actually, they look almost identical. I swear, even the guys and the girls look they could be from one creepy Mormon family.

“Hi, I’m here to audition.”

The voice strikes me as familiar, and when I turn to look, I watch Jaime hand his headshot to the assistant by the door. The assistant lets him walk through, and he spots me. I stare him down, and he immediately goes on the defense.

“Give me a chance, Brit.”

I grind my teeth. Dwain asks me if I know the guy, but I don’t respond. I study Jaime up and down before saying, “Well, at least you aren’t white.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Uhh… thanks?”

“Fine, I’ll let you have your twenty minutes.” I step toward him, keeping my chin in the air. “But, too be honest, I don’t think you’re even serious about the gig.”

He rolls his eyes. “Please, Britain. You think I’m just here to torture you?”

“No, I think you’re here to torture me
and
have a chance to pose with some gorgeous naked women.”

“I take my job pretty seriously, thank you.”

“Then prove it,” I state boldly, and march away.

One of the Amora assistants calls all EPE staff into the back room, but before I can head that way, a pretty brunette girl catches my eye. “Excuse me, Ma’am.”